Scott Matthews - The Assassin's list

“Return to your chair, Mr. Newman, we need to talk.”

“I don’t think so. I’m not used to talking with someone wearing a hood and holding a gun on me.”

“I apologize for the hood,” the man said, pulling it off. “I’m afraid the gun stays.”

When Newman looked into the man’s eyes, he knew this was not going to be a friendly chat.

“Put your tumbler down on the table and sit back in your chair. I’ll get your drink refreshed, and we’ll talk. Mohammed, pour Mr. Newman another double.”

Two men walked from his kitchen, one taking up station at his front door and the other picking up his tumbler and returning to the kitchen. Both men wore black masks, jeans and black T-shirts.

“What do you want?” Newman asked quietly.

“Tell me about the attorney, Drake. What’d ya tell him?”

“Are you the one who killed Martin’s secretary? Is this what this is all about?”

“No man, this ain’t what this about. This about you feeling sorry for killing that secretary, then killing yourself. We just want to know what you got that attorney thinking about first.”

Knowledge isn’t always power, but Newman felt better knowing he knew his killers were from ISIS.

“I got him thinking you ex-cons from ISIS were somehow involved. When you kill me, he’ll know for sure.”

“Maybe, maybe not. A suicide and a note on your computer may make him think you’re just one drunk old pig that sold out and couldn’t live with it. Time will tell. Make it easy on yourself, old man, finish your drink. We got to be going.”

Newman set his drink down and breathed deeply. He wasn’t going to get out of this. If he could force them to shoot him, it wouldn’t look like suicide. He started to bolt from his chair when hands grabbed him and forced him back. His head was pulled back and the bottle of Smirnoff was forced between his lips. As he struggled and gagged on the vodka, he prayed Drake would figure out it wasn’t suicide.

He felt the barrel of the pistol push against his right temple.

Drake finished dictating responses to phone messages for Margo to return, and punched her number on his desk console.

“Margo, would you dial Sam Newman again? If he’s not there, go ahead and get Richard Martin for me.”

In the time it took Drake to pull out a legal pad and make some notes about what he had learned, Margo rang back. Newman was still not answering his home phone and Mr. Martin was on line two.

“Richard, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Have you seen Sam Newman recently? I tried to reach him at home, but he’s not there.”

“Sam left an email saying he was going home to get some sleep. Didn’t you talk with him this morning?”

“I did, and then I paid a visit to your security firm. I was told to take a look at Sam Newman if I wanted to know who had a reason to turn off the security system. You know what that might mean?”

“It means someone’s blowing smoke up your skirt, trying to impugn Sam Newman. I hired Sam personally. I know his background, his personal story and why he’s here in Oregon. Sam has no reason to do anything that would hurt this company.”

“Why are you so sure about Sam Newman?”

“Because he’s my brother-in-law. I hired him after my sister got tired of the hours he worked and divorced him. I’ve known Sam Newman for twenty years. Money’s not important to him, and he loved working here.”

“So you think he’s just sleeping and not answering his phone?”

“He might be sleeping, that’s what he said he was going to do. It’s not like him, not answering his phone. More likely, he couldn’t sleep and is out trying to find out who killed my secretary.”

“All right, I’ll keep trying to find him. Thanks for the information.”

Drake hung up and asked Margo to get Detective Carson on the phone.

“Carson here.”

“Anything new your investigation has turned up?”

“Hell Drake, I thought you were going to solve this one for me. I took a long lunch and just been waiting for you to call.”

“Sounds like your work habits haven’t changed much. I’m following up on something and need to talk with Sam Newman. Have you seen him recently?”

“Not since this morning, but then I do have more than one case to work on and may have missed him. You remember how it is to be busy, don’t you counselor?”

“What I remember is how busy I was cleaning up your messes. That’s what I remember, but thanks for all your help anyway.”

“Anytime. I have to ask Newman some questions myself. If I see him, I’ll try to remember to have him call you.”

When Drake broke the connection, Detective Carson shouted to the homicide division’s one secretary to get Sam Newman from Martin Research on the phone, pronto. He didn’t know what Drake was up to, but this was his investigation and there was no way he was going to let Drake get in his way.

“Sorry, sir. Martin Research says he’s gone home to get some sleep.”

“Well, then call him at home. Did I tell you to quit trying after just one call? Jesus, do I have to come out there and do your job for you?”

Detective Carson sat fuming about the quality of his support staff when his phone rang again. Sam Newman wasn’t answering his home phone. He slammed down the phone, grabbed his coat and stormed out to find Sam Newman.

The drive to Orenco Station took less than ten minutes in the afternoon traffic. Newman’s house was in the middle of the block on NE 64 thAve., a brown two-story bungalow with a Chevy Trail Blazer parked on the street. Carson was mildly impressed. Orenco Station was where his last wife had wanted to live.

Carson rang the doorbell twice without an answer, then banged on the door.

“Newman, police. Wake up, open the door!”

When there was no answer, Carson tried the door and found it was open.

“Newman, Detective Carson. We talked this morning. You in there? I’m coming in.”

Carson walked into Sam Newman’s home and knew he wasn’t going to get an answer. The old cop was sitting in his leather recliner with a.45 on the floor below his right hand. An empty tumbler was on the floor below his left hand. He was dead, no question. Blood and brain matter was on the wall and sofa to his left.

In the kitchen, Carson found an empty bottle of Smirnoff vodka sitting on the granite-topped cooking island, next to an IBM ThinkPad. With a pen from his pocket, he depressed the on-button and read the note Sam Newman left behind.

I didn’t mean for Janice to die. I’m sorry. I needed the money but I didn’t want it to end this way. Sorry.

Carson walked to his car and told his driver to call in the crime scene investigators. Nice to wrap it up this way, but it was way too easy. Drake mentions Newman and he finds Newman dead. Drake or someone was way ahead of both of us, Carson thought. He’d have to figure out which tomorrow.

~~~

When Kaamil was told the old cop was dead, he emailed Malik.

Newman is dead. I’m watching the attorney. My contact in the police department will let me know if they don’t buy Newman’s suicide. If they don’t, the attorney is next unless I hear otherwise. K

Kaamil sat back in his office chair and smiled. Allah, and therefore Malik, would be pleased their plan was moving forward. The necessary death of one kafir didn’t bother him in the least. This was what he lived for, to kill all those who had made his life miserable.

Nothing else in life had provided him satisfaction. Playing football had been his early passion. He was the best wide receiver in Oregon, with two state-championship rings, when he graduated with a scholarship to UC Berkeley. He tried drugs, enjoyed the girls and wound up suspended for most of his freshman year.